


Talk to me, Baby Bird (Timothy side)

by NadeshikoFullbuster



Series: Talk to me, Baby Bird. [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A bit OOC as it is my take on the reckless and virulent side of Tim, Angst, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian is trying his best, Depression, Feeling empty and useless, Gen, Hallucinations, He is trying though, Heath problems for Tim due to stress and his lack of spleen but I'm not saying too much, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jason is the best bro, Joker Junior - Freeform, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Somebody help this child, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, because Tim will have episodes of mad laughing, healing at the end, his issues make him lose his logic, like really heavy one, tim is hurting, very much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadeshikoFullbuster/pseuds/NadeshikoFullbuster
Summary: Bruce is out of the timestream. His best friends are back from the dead. He should be feeling better, relieved.Yet, it is not the case.Tim wakes up in his old bedroom at the manor after a fight with some thugs turned sour and Dick's had to save him.What is happening within him? And why is he feeling nothing and everything all at once?He had to get out of here.Before anybody could see him break apart.But it is too late for that. He is already broken beyond repair





	1. Distress Level: High

**Author's Note:**

> I'm struggling with some stuff rn and I relate to Tim a lot so here I go I guess :)

Gentle rays of sunshine were coming from under the curtains, sole obstacle preventing them from fully cascading in the large bedroom, untouched except for the bed, which is the only furniture in the room that was being used since his habitant came back in the manor after a mission that went a little haywire. Soft baby blue silk sheets were shifting almost imperceptibly with the movements of Tim’s legs, the boy trying to feel the sensation of the sheets through the carefully wrapped bandages around his ankles. Mild cuts, nothing to worry about, yet it didn’t matter for Alfred as he had taken care of them as seriously as if they were deep lacerations. Why, you might ask. Because those cuts should not have been made in the first place, as the people who inflicted them were just second-rate thugs, without a speck of intelligence in them. That is what happens when you throw yourself recklessly and selflessly into danger, almost welcoming it with open arms, which was (half) Tim’s goal last night. He couldn’t, for the life of him, comprehend what was happening within him. His best friends were back from the dead, safe and sound. Conner, Bart, Stephanie and he managed to save his adoptive father from the claws of the timestream while kicking the League of Assassins’ ass in the process. He shouldn’t be feeling like this anymore, he shouldn’t have needed Dick to help him last night from some half-assed two bits criminals with not an ounce of intelligence in them. But he couldn’t help his vision to blur, his muscles to burn and scream for rest, brain from melting into putty and his usual laser-sharp focus was nowhere to be found. Sadly, he couldn’t stay still either, silence and calm being two things he wasn’t used to anymore. Which is why he is laying in the bed of his former bedroom at Wayne Manor, in nothing but shorts and bandages around his ankles, as well as his arms and torso, at 8:AM and already awake since 3:AM (given the fact that he went in bed at 1:AM).

Everything should have gone back to normal when he had freed Bruce and hugged him, feeling happy and alive for the first time in a very long time, but it didn’t not last long. He continued his life as a vigilante as well as the young CEO of WE and he felt like he was back to square one. His team was functioning as if nothing had happened and Damian took his rightful place next to his father as Robin. He worked so hard to get them all back, went through so much pain and despair and now that he had succeeded, he just felt like a rejected piece of puzzle that didn’t fit in the bigger picture anymore now that it was damaged to the bone. Replaceable.

A _replacemen_t so to speak. Someone to fill in while waiting for the others to come back.

Turning in his bed again and again with some underwater music in the background, he felt scarily numb. Like none of what he had accomplished meant anything. Hell, Barry or Wally would have felt something disturbing the timestream or speed force or whatever and would have rescued Bruce if he hadn’t himself. He’d just had a head start because his silly self couldn’t fathom the idea of Batman being dead, it was impossible, and he needed something to keep moving on, a solid reason. Something he could throw all of his efforts in and pour all his will and might, but now that he has nothing to keep himself on the right track, he was lost in the chaos of his battered mind, uncared for the longest time and he was left alone to pick the pieces of old little lost Timmy. Poor little Timmy who does not have any orders left to follow.

Stretching his abused limbs, he revelled in the soreness of his muscles, feeling little jabs of pain each time he moved, as it was helping clear the fog in his head, but unfortunately not the numbness of his mind. After stretching and cracking his bones, he ended up on his stomach and buried his face deep in the fluffy pillows, his black bangs spread on them. So, he decided it didn’t matter how he felt because this feeling of powerlessness was always coming back to him, whatever little useless good he may accomplish in his life. After all, for all the smarts he has, he was the only idiot who _chose_ this lifestyle for himself.

Deciding he didn’t want to stay in the manor anymore, he propped himself up on his elbows, body screaming in protest. He had to think of an idea to get out of the manor, unseen by four people who knew it like the back of their hands.

He turned his head towards the window_. Huh, worth the shot_.

If he remembered well, his old bedroom was one of the chambers the closest to the walls protecting the manor, meaning he had little distance to cover before climbing the walls and be free, so little chance to be discovered. A bit energized by this memory, he threw aside the sheets recovering his thin frame, ignoring the beautiful bruises blossoming over his body, proofs of his many weaknesses, and stood up to find himself some clothes. Staggering a bit, certainly because of his low-sugar level, he put on some skinny black jeans and a short-sleeved, grey hoodie, grabbed his phone, his gear and his keys, put them all in a backpack that he always kept in his closet and strapped it on his back. He exhaled a bit, pushing the tightness of his chest and the dizziness away and took in his appearance harshly brought on him by the closet’s mirror. Ashen skin, sunken eyes with a dark blue storm brewing in them and his hoodie threatening to slip from his shoulder as he lost quite a bit of muscular mass. Sighing ruefully, he pulled out a pair of black sunglasses from one the drawers, always there to help them preserve their secret identity so an intruder should trespass in the manor, even if it was highly unlikely. All he cared for right now was to prevent the big B man from seeing him like this, so he walked toward the window, draw the curtains and opened it. He inhaled the fresh morning air deeply and let himself fall, skilfully making his way down, perpendicular to the walls of the manor to secure his fall.

When his feet hit the ground, the need to escape made itself more urgent, and Tim was going to break into a dash when he realized someone was waiting for him patiently. He couldn’t even see the early morning sun as Bruce Wayne’s tall stature blocked the way and the teen felt a cold sweat broke on his back. A quick glance behind him showed a chair, casually placed against the wall of the manor so that he couldn’t see it from where he was, and he painfully realized that Bruce knew perfectly well that he was going to try to escape by the window. Not that he was going to notice the chair anyway, the young bird had only one goal: to get the hell out of here before it became awkward.

Too late.

He was facing the bigger, stronger man with his hands on his hips to mask the fact that he was burning with shame for not seeing that coming. How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now? He couldn’t even bring himself to look at his father in the eyes, evaluating the time it will take him to run from here to the walls, grab his grappling hook and vanish. Less than a 0,1% chance it was happening.

Arms crossed, Bruce could literally hear the gears running wild in his head and felt deeply sad that his own son wasn’t feeling at home under his roof. However, the boy standing before him was radiating insecurity and vulnerability, so he highly doubted that he would feel comfortable anywhere else either. That is why he couldn’t let him go for now. Not before they talked for real. Tim wasn’t the same since Bruce came out of the timestream, Dick informed him of the decisions he had to take as Batman, including stripping Tim of his role as Robin to give it to Damian as an anchor after his “death”. But what about Tim? It left him in a dark place, from which he doesn’t seem out of, on the contrary he is stagnating in it, letting his shadows slither around him and it finally led him to be hurt. Not gravely, but nonetheless injured and it could have been worse if Nightwing hadn’t been there to back him up. Meaning, he was done giving him his space.

Closing the gap between them and trying his best not to look threatening, he put one hand on Tim’s shoulder, pushing aside the pang of guilt when his hand almost covered it entirely, and took the glasses of his face, bringing them back on the top of his head, brushing the bangs at the same time so he could take a good look at his son’s face. Dark eyes that were now looking at him, defiantly and numbly, supported by dark circles under them and he could almost be scary if the large dark purple bruise adorning his left cheekbone and his ghostly white skin wasn’t so worrying. He let his other hand cradle his left cheek for a moment. Tim allowed it.

“What happened yesterday, Tim?”

“I got overwhelmed and Dick helped me. End of the story,” he spat, trying to slap away Bruce’s hand from his sinewy shoulder.

“We both know it’s not only that.” He kept a firm grip on his shoulder and grabbed the other one as well. “Those guys were nothing to what you are used to deal with. Tell me what distracted you, put you out of focus.”

“ ‘Cause you think I know it myself?” his chest started to ache, to burn. He, who was so accustomed of knowing everything, the most strategic one in the family, was at a loss for words. “I… I just… don’t know okay? I’ll be better next time.”

He felt himself going a bit slump in Bruce’s grip, his breath a little ragged, his legs a bit numb. He could feel himself burning with shame, and at the same time he didn’t care.

“It doesn’t have to do with being better, it has to do with mindlessly throwing yourself in the open without a plan. It’s not like you at all Tim… Talk to me.”

Don’t. Don’t do that. _Don’t try to pry in when I don’t know myself what the hell is going on._

His heart picked up the pace of his flaring anxiety and he tried to keep it at bay just a while longer, at least the time he will need to hide himself from his eyes, even if it meant returning in the manor. He couldn’t just straight tell him that he let them beat him a little just so he could feel something again, could he? The tightness of his chest became very disturbing and he massaged two fingers over it.

“It’s not that I didn’t have a plan it’s… I’m just tired okay? Like a lot, and it’s coming from the coffee addict. I just need… some rest…”

“Tim?”. The understanding of the situation made Bruce shudder with terror.

He felt like his body temperature just rose up a few degrees, like something red-hot was melting inside of his lungs. At this point, he couldn’t hide his panic and panting breath and his body just screamed OUT.

“Tim, I’m going to need you to focus, stay awake…”

His vision already started to blur, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything, going boneless in Bruce’s arms, struggling with his breath. His blood went cold when he felt a sickening pain travelled all the way from his chest to his right arm, making it numb. Unconsciously, his left hand desperately grasped his hoodie where his heart lied beneath, and it all crashed on him.

He was dying.

That’s it.

And he couldn’t care less.

…………………………………………..

He was _not_ dead. The feeble beeping of the machine beside him didn’t do anything to reassure him.

The deep aching of his chest, though, was there to painfully confirm it.

A heart attack. At 17 years old. He knew he had family history about it, but he never thought it was going to happen to him so soon. But that wasn’t what he was worried about, the thing that pissed him off the most was that he wasn’t going see the end of it if he had a heart condition or whatever, because Bruce was never letting him out of his sight or taking up vigilante work if he didn’t see Tim fit for it. Even if his brain was demanding to disconnect for a while, he had enough knowledge to know it was impossible to have a heart condition and not be aware of it. His parents weren’t loving per say and they never stayed home more than a week at a time, but they were aware of the medical history of their family and took him to the hospital to make a bunch of tests, reassuring them on the fact that they won’t be returning home to a wheezing child, clutching his chest on the floor.

However, there was a high possibility that his coronary arteries deteriorated with time and all the shit he’s been through, seeing that he is never been really kind to his body in terms of sleep, diet, self-care… well, in basically everything.

Assessing his surroundings, he realized he was in the medbay, the cool air of the cave being a bliss to his feverish skin, and only one person was with him. Thankfully, Dr Leslie Thompkins hadn’t seemed to notice he was awake and kept snoring on her chair at the bottom of his bed. He was shirtless with several wires connecting his chest and wrist to the machines next to him, and he felt new bandages wrapped more tightly around his torso, meaning that Leslie must have performed surgery and that he had at least been out for a day.

Testing the waters, he tried to lift his arms a bit and found that they weren’t as sore as he thought they would be, and he didn’t have much trouble to breathe. In fact, it was quite normal. His vitals were all good if he believed the data the machines were giving and his brain didn’t feel as fogged up as it was before, thanks to the rest it got. Yet, as much as his body was itching to, Tim couldn’t just bail out right here right now without hearing in details what happened to him. Even though he felt that it wouldn’t have been bad if he had died, he was alive and had to deal with it no matter how much it was going to be a pain in the ass to deal with the complications to come. Plus, he was a hell of a perfectionist and not knowing everything in his vicinity in details was driving him crazy, courtesy of growing up with the Big Bat he supposed. Therefore, he looked for the clipboard he was sure Leslie had filled with the details of his heart attack (god it felt weird to say that) and guessed she had hanged it at the bottom of his bed like they do in regular hospitals.

Bingo.

He took it as quietly as he could to not wake her up, because judging by the little twitches she made, her sleep was light. He began reading:

‘-Mild myocardial infarction caused by the narrowing and thinning of the coronary arteries, most likely caused by the high blood pressure and unusually high level of stress endured for an abnormal amount of time, as well as family history with the disease.

-Performed a coronary angioplasty and stenting: A catheter is passed in the wrist to the damaged arteries with a special balloon that, once in position, is briefly inflated to open a blocked coronary artery. A metal mesh stent is then inserted into the artery to keep it open on long term, restoring blood flow to the heart.

-Demands at least a week of absolute rest before further check-ups to decide if medication is needed in the foreseeable future. Must see if beta blockers and ACE inhibitors are needed to help relax the heart and reduce blood pressure and heartbeat.’

Great, so he was benched a whole week with high chances to be put on medication after. Couldn’t his heart have been nicer to him and waited for him to be back in his apartment before it gave up on him so suddenly?

“You’re looking more annoyed than affected by the news, Timothy. Should I take that you were aware of something?”

“Aware of my family history Leslie, that’s all. How could I have expected something so brutal, huh?” he said nonchalantly, letting himself fall on his pillow, like he was enjoying a completely normal morning. “But what’s done is done and I have to deal with the consequences. I really need to stay in bed a whole week though?”

“A. Whole. Week. No exception. You just had a heart attack young man, for God’s sake! I know how many frightening events you witness every day in your line of work, but it should rattle you a bit, no?” At this point she had stood up and spread her hands on the edge of the bed, anger and worry radiating from her in waves that choked up Tim, but he did his best to hide it. Like always.

“I know it should, but Leslie to be honest… I’m not. Right now, it just feels like any injury. It will be gone soon, and I’ll be able to go back to my previous activities.”

_No need to tell her that he kind of embraced the feeling of life **seeping away** from him._

Ruffling her hair back, she sighed deeply. At least, she had thought that this kind of event would encourage Tim to take a break from his unbridled schedule, way more crammed that the other young vigilantes she knew, but no. It had mildly shocked him, and she couldn’t even convince him that he it was graver than this, because it wasn’t. He just had to stay in bed for a week and take it slowly for a couple more while taking medicine that will help slow his heartbeat, increase the blood flow and done. At least, his rhythm will be consequently slowed down for a bit, she knows that Bruce and Alfred will see to that.

“In any case, you are to take it slowly during this week and when I mean slowly, I mean that I want you to stay in the manor with Alfred monitoring you and I will be back at the end of the week to do another check-up. It’s all written on your clipboard. Because we are both aware that your lifestyle is far from exemplar and that it has a major part in your heart attack. Too much coffee and too little sleep,” She said authoritatively, tapping the clipboard in Tim’s hand.

“Thank you for taking care of it. As usual.” He showed her a little smile to prove that he was grateful of her efforts.

_Not particularly grateful to be alive per say._

“You better damn be boy,” she had relaxed a bit, judging by the way her shoulders slumped. “I will see you in seven days.”

She grabbed her jacket and bag that she had tossed in a corner, probably in a hurry when she arrived yesterday, and went to leave but she stopped before she was out of earshot and shouted:

“Of course, I don’t have to specify that your heart needs to rest and that means no caffeine!”

_Let’s say DEFINITELY NOT grateful to be alive._

…………………………………………..

Now that Leslie had given her doctor’s orders to follow, the young CEO had expected to be left alone to sleep his drowsiness off, but _noooo_. He had sensed the first Robin coming before his footsteps were reverberating throughout the cave, probably because the cave was starting to get too silent, and given who was at the manor upstairs, it was very suspicious when no noise was to be heard. Since he couldn’t knock on the curtains that were separating the medbay from the rest of the cave, Dick announced himself :

“You’re awake Timmy? Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The child-like nickname that he used to love and made him feel safe just made him sick now, even though he knows Dick means well, he plainly hated when people used this kind of tone with him when he was injured. Recently, he founded (?) himself disliking little things like this more and more, and it was another reminder that he wasn’t built to live with other human beings anymore.

_Or built to live period. _

The eldest son took the chair Leslie was sitting on earlier and moved it closer to the bed so he could face his little brother properly.

But before sitting, he bridged the gap between them and hugged his brother in a bone-crushing embrace.

“God, I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to see you again. How are you feeling?”

“Right now? Crushed to death and unable to breathe.” He breathed out of Dick’s chest, half-choking.

Dick hurriedly let go but he still let his hands clasped around Tim’s shoulders.

“Sorry! But seriously, how are you holding up? According to Leslie, it’s very unlikely you will be subjected to something like that ever again, but still…”

The waves of concern radiating off him were making the younger man very uncomfortable. Dick’s mothering came only from temporary shock from the news. He wouldn’t have bother to come see him otherwise if the situation hadn’t been extraordinary.

He didn’t check on him during his little crusade to save Bruce, not even aware of where he was and that didn’t stop him from taking on the cowl like it was nothing. Since Bruce’s “death”, their relationship has only been professional, and Tim wanted it to stay that way. Dick’s partner is Damian now and the teen was sick of trying to mend something that will break anyway. His bond with Dick had broken when he had tear off the only thing that made him sane and secure and gave it to another.

And yet… the first Robin was acting like nothing had happened, like Bruce’s return had erased all their mistakes and trials and suffering… like he expected everything to just reboot, purge itself from viruses and restart. Like it was normal for Tim to accept him and everyone else again when he had spent so much time alone, to struggle and flail and drown in a dark, black hole-like place he still had a foot in.

It wasn’t normal. Not for someone as common as Tim.

At this point, he didn’t want anybody to try and give him hope of a normal life with the family again because it was plainly impossible. There were too many cracks in his soul and too many feelings of abandonment engrained within his body. He wasn’t going to restart it all. He was far too exhausted for this.

“Tim?”

He turned a weary look to his brother and managed a little smile, determined to cut the conversation as soon as he could.

“You know what? I feel fine. As long as I get the rest I need, it will be healed in a couple of weeks,” he casually said, lying down on his pillow again with an arm over his eyes.

“Fine? You had a heart attack at your age, and you feel _fine_? You didn’t panic or anything?” The blue bird had some difficulty to believe that his brother was somewhat unscathed by all of this. Regarding everything else that happened to the poor guy, he couldn’t be just fine.

“Sure, at first it was a shock, but I passed out very quickly, so I didn’t have the time for anything else, you know.”

“You sure? You can talk to me if you want or if you’re feeling overwhelmed or...”

“Don’t bother, I’m fine Dick. Just super tired.”

_Of everything._

The neutral tone in his voice was making Dick feel even more concerned than he was before for Tim. First, the kid looked like actual death right now, his skin rivalling the colour of the sheets he was laying on, and _jesus_ he had felt the bones sticking out from under the baggy clothes Tim’s wearing. And he didn’t forget the stunt he had pulled two days ago with those thugs… His little brother was unwell, and he wasn’t showing any signs of accepting it nor wanting to talk about it.

………………………

The next time Tim woke up, he surprisingly found that Damian was keeping him company instead of Alfred. The kid had a book in his hands, completely into whatever story he was reading, and with his faithful sword resting against the chair, between the armrest and his leg. Like he was keeping watch. Sneering in his head, he thought that Alfred had perhaps left to run some errands and had asked the only person available, a.k.a demon spawn over there, to watch over him and check if his heart didn’t do anything funny. Pretending to be still asleep, Tim feinted some unconscious stretching and turned away from Damian’s prying eyes. With some luck, he will be able to fall asleep again without having to speak to the brat. Not that the other would want to engage a conversation anyway.

“I know you are awake, Drake,” came a flat, obvious remark, as if to say that Tim was an idiot to even try and hide something from the little assassin’s eyes. Great. He must have noticed the steady lifting of his chest had disappeared in favour of a quicker one.

“You want a medal or something? Maybe a lollipop?” the snarky reply made him smirk, he still had the automatic skill to reply to Damian’s annoying remarks.

“Tt.”

He returned to his book promptly, deflecting his attention back to the story and frowning his eyebrows even more. However, how drowsy Tim was feeling, he could still notice the curious glances Damian threw his way from time to time, apparently checking his current condition.

After what had seemed like hours of silence between them when it had only been half an hour, the youngest bird broke the ice:

“I thought you were going to die.”

Anybody else would have been able to pick on the little distress and tremor that involuntary slipped in his voice, but Tim didn’t. He had turned away, resuming his previous position while having one ear buried in his pillow and even in his peak condition, he wouldn’t have noticed it. According to Tim, Damian had only two emotions when it comes to him: annoyance and disdain. Thus, for him, Damian was just disappointed that he hadn’t died and cleared the way for him once and for all.

“Yeah, sorry I failed something that simple. It would have made things simpler for you, huh?”

His tone was harsher than he had wanted to but who cares. He wasn’t particularly in a good mood and his sarcastic side was showing more and more these days, especially with the brat in the medbay with him. In his position, he couldn’t see Damian’s eyes growing a little wide nor the twitch of his shoulders as he had spat the words. Closing his book and putting it aside, the younger boy straightened on his chair, his fingers grasping the armrests hard.

“Do you have any idea how I… Father and Grayson were worried? Not to mention Pennyworth, who almost fainted when Father brought you here, he… he was clutching at you like a lifeline and you were lying as limp as a corpse in his arms!”

“I don’t have any idea why you are so angry. You wanted me dead not so long ago, you could have gotten rid of me yesterday and yet you’re still finding a way to be unpleased. Well, I get that you are disappointed but cut me some slack, demon brat. I can’t control those things,” he sneered openly, revelling in his black humour and the unexpected reaction Damian just showed him.

Damian was honestly surprised by the way Drake was conducting himself. He was talking of his near-death experience as if it was a joke or worse… like he was the one who was actually disappointed he hadn’t passed. But that didn’t make any sense, why would Drake feel like this? He should be relieved or feel scared, but no, he acted in a way that was disturbingly normal for the young teenager.

“Contrary to popular belief, I am no longer wishing you dead Drake. I was seeing you as a threat but not anymore.”

“Oh, I see, I graduated from ‘threat’ to ‘useless piece of trash not even worthy of your time’.” This time, his tone was more loathing and resentful, but again, Damian had a hard time identifying to whom it was directed.

Damian was showing his concern for once, as much as he could, and Tim couldn’t see it, which made the youngest almost sad. Almost, because he was also feeling anger at hearing Tim calling himself a useless piece of trash. He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought of him like this at first, but then he experienced first hand the skill and intellect of his predecessor and just got plain jealous. Therefore, he knew better than anyone that Tim was formidable in every aspect of his life.

He was at a loss for words because he could say everything he wants to say about his adoptive brother and Drake wouldn’t believe him. Defeated, he sat in his chair again, which he hadn’t noticed he had sprung from earlier, and whispered very slowly, almost for himself:

“Why would you ever think that?” 

……………………………………

It was only a bit before midnight, when he was preparing for patrol, that Bruce came to visit him. He didn’t want to pressure Tim any further during the day knowing that Alfred was tending to him and that his oldest and youngest already came, but he had to make sure that he was going to be okay at least once. He could hardly bear to remember the way Tim’s eyes had filled with panic when he realised what was happening to him, and how they went glassy and dull afterwards, as if his life force was spilling out of him like a haemorrhage he couldn’t stop. He had crashed into his broad chest at first, rigid and shaking and, to Bruce’s horror, went completely limp in his arms as his eyes had rolled back into his skull and consciousness had been brutally taken away from him. The rest was a hazy blur; him calling frantically Leslie, bringing him to Alfred at the cave under Dick’s horrified eyes and Damian’s confused ones…

He sighed an umpteenth time before stopping in front of the medbay. He still believed Tim was the strongest of them all, and that he can heal despite everything that has happened to him. They will make sure of it, no matter how much time it will take.

“Tim, I’m here.”

He brushed the curtains back as slowly as he could only to discover an empty bed and rustled sheets. His brain automatically lit up, ringing one of the alarms he had developed over the years: _missing child_. But he quickly calmed it (or himself) when he realized his boy was only changing in the back room. Controlling his concern, he stepped inside at the same time Tim was removing his sweaty shirt, incredibly careful of the way his body ached and hurt from what happened the last few days. He still had the bandages from his altercation with the low-life thugs two days ago.

As a strategist, Tim rarely fights big-scaled and power-related villains head on, protecting himself from heavy injuries and usually sustains only minor cuts and bruises, and in the worst cases severe concussions or a few broken bones, like they all did. Bruce knew he had multiple of those scars, varying in length and depth but what he saw on his boy’s back, among new wounds, were bullet holes.

Bullets.

Meaning that Tim had to cover more ground to make up for his absence, certainly ignoring the help that he could have gotten from his brothers, thus sustaining more damage. Feeling the worry building up more and more, he felt the urge to demand some explanations. _Now_. Bruce made his presence known by slightly knocking on the wall to get Tim’s attention. The much smaller man was startled a bit, but quickly resumed what he was doing and reached for a clean short-sleeved black shirt.

“What is it, Bruce?”

The taller man was about to ask questions in his Batman voice when Tim turned around to face him, exposing his torso this time and its new plethora or recent injuries. Cataloguing each and every one of them in the part of his brain dedicated to his children, what angered Bruce the most was the large, deep purple scar tissue that covered Tim’s upper left side, almost hiding the shape of the muscles and the ribs underneath it. Tightening his grip around the wall so hard he could have left cracks in it, he could feel his deep blue eyes darkened out of anger and diffuse worry, as well as the need to destroy any person remotely responsible for Tim’s now obvious lack of spleen.

“You look like Clark when he’s about to laser beam something.”

It came out almost emotionlessly, a simple fact rather than a joke to break the ice (or rather the _concrete_ wall between them). But Bruce wasn’t in the mood for jokes**. Batman** wanted answers.

“Who did this to you?”

“My recklessness and stupidity did.”

Bruce closed the gap between them in two long steps and grabbed his son’s shoulders, noticing the ever-present tension and the thinness.

“Tim.”

He couldn’t help his tone to be commanding and his presence towering over Tim’s slender frame, even though he only wanted to protect him and convey this feeling. But he failed (who could have believed it?) at expressing his personal concern. His arms hanging purposelessly along his sides, the third boy wonder let out a truly deep sigh, profoundly annoyed at the prospect of explaining what happened to his adoptive father (or more like giving answers as he is being interrogated by the Big Bat).

“Nothing much different from the lives we’re living, you know. Sure, I had to ask for help to people I don’t like, and I got involved in a lot of trouble, but I only allowed it because I had a goal. A _mission_. Saving you.”

Bruce inhaled sharply, the gnawing feeling of apprehension growing in his gut at the thought of Tim facing dangers way larger for him to handle on his own.

“Why didn’t you ask for help to your brothers? Working alone on your cases is a thing, but…”

“I decided to save you **myself**. The others thought you were dead for good, and that I was crazy to think that you could possibly be alive. Dick was busy with being Batman and he gave Robin to Damian. I didn’t need them, and they didn’t need me.”

The Bat flinched at the violence of these words. Yet, they were spoken so calmly. He could feel the hatred and loneliness that Tim must have felt at the time, and that saddened him to no end. However, what really shocked him was how Tim talked about it. Indifferent and cold. His eyes had no joy nor relief in them, there was only a steady pain lingering in his pale blue eyes. Dick had explained to him in broad terms what happened, but he never had the opportunity to talk about it all with Tim himself, to talk about what he had done and sacrificed to save him.

Once upon a time, reading Tim’s emotions was as easy as seeing Dick’s blinding love for cereals. The boy had rarely the occasion to experience them and when he did, it was obviously showing on his juvenile face. Now, every trace of the once happy, curious and avid-to-learn Tim had disappeared, leaving only this empty shell of a young man, lost and in pain. It could be so easy to give him the help he needs, to apologize and to promise they won’t let him live this kind of hardships alone anymore. It would have been easy with any other person.

Not with Tim Drake.

He will think that it will be pointless and hurtful to cling to anything for comfort or promise of a better tomorrow. Bruce couldn’t find a way (an efficient one that is) that would compel Tim to seek help on his own, to talk about everything that happened without ordering him to do so. Thus, he decided to simply try and show his concern, even though it is not his forte. After all, he ought not to forget Tim’s health condition. The lack of a spleen means a weaker immune system and a greater exposition to bacteria and infections. He had to contact Leslie again and inform her of that since Tim completely forgot to precise it. More precisely, he probably didn’t forget but deemed it unimportant, and that only put more fuel on the fire of Bruce’s heart, pained by the sufferings of his child and lit with a revengeful fire against those who hurt him.

A slight trembling under his hands brought him back to reality. They’ve been standing still for more than 10 minutes and Tim, though his face didn’t show it (it was incredibly blank), was starting to wear down. He hadn’t much energy to spare from the beginning anyway. His body was facing him, but his eyes didn’t look at his own, stubbornly staring between them. Bruce moved a hand from his slender shoulder to his neck, cradling almost all of it plus the nape, caressing the hair that sloppily hanged here. Just being here…nothing else.

_His bangs are still as soft as I remember, at least._

“Come and lay down, son, you’re exhausted.”

Tim’s eyes twitched a bit at the affectionate name, finding it foreign on Bruce’s lips, but he didn’t say a thing and just hummed, getting back to bed.

………………..

(Tim’s P.O.V)

The bed had been advanced forward so that Tim could be in a sitting position without doing the effort of sitting. And Bruce had taken the chair the others had used before him to sit _oh_ so very close to Tim so that he could question him all he wanted before patrol.

“Would you please answer to my earlier question? Who did this to you?”

A little voice in the back of Tim’s head laughed hard, whispering what to respond to Tim, and he liked it enough to smirk himself.

“You’re the World’s Greatest Detective, right? C’mon, can’t you guess it for yourself?”

“… The League of Assassins.”

Tim made a ‘bingo’ type of noise, like a bell from a pop-quiz show that would announce the right answer. Bruce’s expression only creased more in worry (_eh_, _he thinks I’m turning crazy_).

“Long story short, I asked Ra’s for help, got it, got hurt, managed to save you with the help of the Justice League (for those who want to know the details, go read the Return of Bruce Wayne!) and I even dealt a hurtful blow to the League. End of the story.”

“Are you seriously thinking that I’ll believe only that happened?”

“It’s the only important things you need to know. And I wasn’t feeling particularly good at the time either, so my memories are all fuzzy. Anyway, I’m alive so that’s the only thing that matters, no?

It was a half-lie. It was true that during his solo crusade and the many wounds and traumas it inflicted him, Tim’s memories were a roller-coaster of intense loops and moments of absence. He had enormous difficulty to remember details, but he clearly remembered how he felt throughout this gruesome trial. His drive and determination were the only things that allowed him to survive.

Because God knows he had wanted to off himself more than once ( I _still do_).

His brain had been on automatic mode for more than half of the time, letting his training and wits take care of mostly everything, but on counterpart, his brain let him deal with all his crappy emotions.

Thankfully, he hadn’t had to deal with much of it these days. Since Bruce came back, he found himself more and more apathetic, more and more numb and empty, his once cravings for human contact and warmth having dulled to the point of quasi disappearance. Sometimes, he had the pleasant feeling that his once overwhelming logic had gotten far away from him to let his hatred and loneliness take a hold of him. They took turns in his brain, making him feel as sad as a kicked puppy, and when sorrow was beginning to choke him and make him yearn for his team or his family, hatred (as well as self-loathing and suicidal thoughts) took the reins. Making him hate everybody for how they excluded him, but also feeling useless and worthless enough not to ask for apologies. He didn’t deserve them anyway.

And then the heart attack… when he woke up, he felt as though his emotions had dialled down between 2 and 3, leaving only his bitterness, resent, self-hatred and fatigue. It was so much easier to let them flow and guide him, to be cynical and make Bruce and everyone else hurt a bit for the treatment he received. It was really nice compared to what he usually had in mind.

After all, they deserved to be called out on their actions. Tim wants to make them understand the importance of his actions, but he didn’t want the care and sickly affection that came after it. Not anymore. It’s too late for that.

“Tim, I want you to stay in the manor during the time of your recovery. Even the few weeks after that, it’s non-negotiable.”

Well, he expected no less. Didn’t mean he had to abide to it. He could wait when everybody least expects it to escape and…

“And in the future… I’d like you to permanently move back in the manor.”

This was also… _wait, what?_

“Bruce, don’t you think you’re exaggerating? Just me staying several weeks is exceptional, I’m getting back to my place after everything is over.”

“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t have to do with just your physical condition… I’m worried about your mental state right now.”

_Straightforward as always. _Indeed, he didn’t do any effort to keep his lack of emotions from showing on his face since he woke up this morning.

“I’m an emancipated minor Bruce, you can’t keep me here by force.”

“I won’t have to, you’re assigned to bed for at least a week, and you will have time after that to realize that you need to stay here with your family.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it! I’m not letting myself get trapped again, you hear me?!”

_He could hear the sound of threads breaking in his head._

“Tim, what are you talking ab…”

“You’re not the boss of me anymore. I did my job and it’s done. Don’t try and pretend that nothing ever happened by asking me to live with the rest of you again, okay? As far as I know, Jason didn’t get this chance, did he?”

He could clearly see the hurt that brutally flashed in Bruce’s eyes, reviving the most painful memories he had. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop Tim from jumping out of his bed and towering over Bruce this time, as he was still sitting.

“What is it that you want from me now, Bruce? I’m tired of playing the perfect little son, okay? Just leave me deal with this by myself, I just want to d..!”

_Die…_

_Die…_

** _DIE._ **

At this precise moment, a window opened in Tim’s eyes, allowing the Bat to see what was choking him up so bad.

And it made him sprung from his chair, knocking it down from the force, because he doesn’t know what it is. The Bat knows _everything_, and he can’t even figure out what his own son is feeling. He only knows that it is bad, dangerous and extremely self-destructive. He grasped Tim’s shoulders as delicately as he could in his state of rising panic, and locked eyes with him:

“What do you want to do, Timothy?”

Tim’s right eye began to twitch from the psychological burden that was about to burst, and he opened his mouth to say the damn word. But the voice inside his head, the one that kept him alive until this day, revealed its thorny claws. It took all the words, all the honest truths Tim’s true self wanted to say and put them in a box already overflowing with the worst aches possible. It locked the box and the key disintegrated.

As a result, Tim’s facial muscles loosened up and his eyes turned back to that dull pale blue that showed absolute **nothingness**. He sighed and ruffled his hair, adverting his gaze once more.

“Sorry, I don’t know what got into me. It’s nothing.”

If Tim had calmed down, Bruce was completely and utterly horrified. It was like Tim was possessed by something that was keeping him from asking for help.

A hollow giggle coming from his son’s lungs made him snap out of his trance and he hugged him tight, arms wounded around his waist in the kind of embrace he would have given him if he was in a life or death situation.

Tim kept on giggling softly, repeating that it’s nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothingnothing…

And then the giggles turned into crazy laughs then into silent tears and into biting his lip as hard as he could until he draws blood and then it turns into digging his sharp nails into his palms to draw blood as well and…

He lost track of time in Bruce’s arms, doesn’t realize that he grabbed both of his wrists to keep him from hurting himself, doesn’t hear him calling Alfred for a sedative, doesn’t see the butler’s pained look on him and how he bandages his hands in the softest of manners, with Bruce keeping a hold of him all the time…

When he came back to himself, the world was blurry and fuzzy, a cool and refreshing numbness washed over him. It was what probably allowed him to withstand the worried looks of Dick and Damian over him.

“Hey Timmy, how are you feeling?”

Obviously, he didn’t respond to that, having spotted Bruce talking to Alfred in his suit in front of the computer. With his vision stabilizing, he saw that he was making all sorts of tests, probably to identify if something was wrong with him physically. _Apart from the lack of spleen. And the heart condition, of course_.

_You won’t find anything, Bruce. It’s too late._

_I’m not just broken, I’m shattered to pieces._


	2. Distress level: Very High.

After his little breakdown, Tim was kept under sedatives for the night to help him sleep, keeping him safe from the nightmares and the fits of laughing because _God_, did it do the trick to make Bruce remember of the time the Joker had captured him, brainwashed him and transformed him into…

_Pasty-white skin._

_Sickly green hair._

_A smile so wide, so bloody it was going to leave long-lasting marks and bruising._

_A laughter so…_

Bruce shook his head a bit to distract himself from those despair-inducing memories. Last night’s patrol had merely been a way to let off some steam, using the low-level criminals as punching bags, imagine them as substitutes for the assassins of the League. Whereas Dick remained at the manor with Alfred to make sure nothing could disrupt the third Robin’s sleep, Damian had insisted on coming with him, reminding him with pride that his duty was to accompany Batman as his Robin anywhere he went, especially on patrol in Gotham. Nonetheless, he had sensed the unease of his youngest throughout the night. Usually, he likes to distance himself from his father - while still having on eye on him of course – and fight on his own. He didn’t this time. He had spent almost the entire night glued to his father’s cape, taking care of all the thugs coming from behind and resorting to throwing all his arsenal of weapons at the enemies on the front. And what was even rarer, when they were both satisfied of their night, is the fact that Damian had actually asked himself if they could_ go home_, his eyebrows knitted in a slightly distraught way.

Bruce had never been made more aware of his son’s young age than at that precise moment.

13 years old.

Moreover, it made him also aware of Tim’s age.

17 years old. A teenage boy already damaged like a 40 years old man.

As he ruffled his youngest son’s hair and pulled him closer to him, he could only pray they would all find a solution - as a family and not as vigilantes - to keep Tim at their side, without suffocating him and provoking such a reaction in him.

……………………………………………………

Thank whatever deity was up there, he wasn’t in the Cave anymore. He was in the room he had slept in after he screwed up with the thugs. Thinking about it, he should have escaped from the main door, no one would have thought he would choose the obvious choice. His body felt heavy, dealing with the remnants of the strong painkillers he had been pumped with last night.

Usually, he would have been more self-conscious of his lashing out at Bruce like he did and then losing himself in the darkest depths of his mind. And yet, as he had done it so many times, he couldn’t bring himself to care about that anymore. All he wanted was _out_ and he was going to have it sooner or later.

_You should exercise your body in case they’ll lock you up. That way, you won’t let your muscles atrophied._

“Yeah, you’re right.” He mumbled to himself, answering the voice in his head out loud, barely acknowledging it.

His goal, from the beginning, was to get the hell out of here as soon as he realized he was in the manor and that hadn’t changed. Even with a heart attack, he was known to be stubborn to the end. Propping up his body with his elbows, he sat cross-legged on the bed and, after unplugging himself from the heart monitor and turning it off, he began to stretch thoroughly and carefully. His neck, his arms, first the fingers, the wrists, his joints. Then the legs, starting with his toes, then his ankles… He worked through all the stretching exercises he could think of, clearing his mind of unwanted emotions and feelings in the process, and got out of bed to do some push-ups.

Completely forgetting that he was to stay in bed for a whole week and not strain his heart.

As he had already done a good fifty push-ups, the door of his room opened, and a gasp followed by a deep sigh was heard. Dick.

“What are you doing, young man?” the usually goofy and cheery attitude wasn’t here, replaced by worried and concerned mother hen Dick instead.

“Doing push-ups.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Stop right now, you’re supposed to be in bed.” The big bird said while setting down a tray of food and medicine.

“What if I don’t want to? It’s been already three days that I’m bored out of my mind. If I don’t break a sweat a bit, I’m going to go crazy… oh wait, too late for that.”

Dick recoiled from the black humour, but he didn’t let himself be swept away by his worry, that, let’s say frankly, has been spiking off the roof because of what happened yesterday. His little brother hadn’t just looked lost in his medical bed, but completely _gone_. The colour had been washed off his eyes, his mouth a little agape, like he was waiting for death to come slay him right here right there.

He crouched right in front of Tim’s head, going up and down from the push-ups, and when his head went up again, he cupped his cheeks to make him stop.

“You’re not crazy Timbers, you’re just incredibly stubborn and you just don’t let yourself catch a breath. You know, air? The thing that keeps your brain alive?” He poked Tim’s forehead to emphasize his words, stretching his lips in a comforting, yet concerned smile.

Tim couldn’t help a little chuckle to leave him at this remark. His brain felt like it was rotting in its skull and air wouldn’t be much of a help for it, but he managed to keep the eerie joke his mind murmured to him. Right now, he had to convince them, as much as he could, that he was going to try to be okay. And that meant keeping inside him all the crazed giggles, the black humour and the hints that showed his real thoughts.

_Escape or die_.

In that respect, he decided to humour his big brother and stopped the push-ups which, even if he would rather die than say it, had tired him out. He sat cross-legged and pointed at himself.

“Here. Happy now?”

“Very much. And I will be even more happy if you ate something and took your antibiotics.”

“I’ll go wash a bit before that, I’ll be right back.”

He felt ashamed to realize that his stamina wasn’t as good as before and that it took an even heavier toll after his heart attack. 50 push-ups and he was breathing harder, when 200 of them would have been a toddler’s game before. Removing his shirt, he appreciated a bit the fact that the bathroom was small, meaning that nobody could see him or touch him or even impose their presence on him. Slowly turning his head towards the mirror, he looked at his extremely pale skin, which was a bit weird because, except for his racing heart, he was feeling fine. Thinking no more of it, he shrugged and let his fingers trail on the faded white lines along his hips and ribs, remembering how they had ended up here:

“It could be a good idea to do it again to keep my focus around them.”

He remembered using physical pain to distract himself from the mental one, which had shown itself as a useful tool to keep his mind on track when dealing with a member of the family or the Titans.

“If I remember correctly, it’s here…”

As pitiful as it could be, when he moved in the manor, the first thing Tim did was to hide an emergency batarang in a secret stash in every toilet tank of every single bathroom of the manor. It took him a while, but it was worth it, and even if Alfred finds them, self-harm won’t be the first thing that will pop out in his mind. He would rather think of it as an emergency weapon if intruders attack and the only place to strategically retract is the bathroom.

Thus, he lifted the tank’s lid, plunged his hand in the cold water, pushed a special spot at the bottom and took the black batarang from its case. He tested the sharpness of it with his forefinger and seeing that it didn’t dull and could cut just fine, he stepped in the shower and ran the water until it was scalding hot. He waited until his hair was soaked and his skin blotched red, then brought the sharp edge to his slim thigh. Wrists were a given in these kind of situations – since they gave the most mind-relieving and numbing kind of pain, especially when accompanied with heavy blood loss – but he would get busted too easily since he’s supposed to be on IV right now. Therefore, the thighs are the next most logical choice, plus they are rather tender and easy to cut into, especially now that Tim had lost considerable amount of muscle mass. Without waiting, he brings the batarang to his flesh and _cuts and cuts and cuts and cuts_ all the space that his left thigh can give, and when he is satisfied with the crimson that covers and drips all over his leg, turning the translucent water into a toned-down version of his blood, he washes himself. His mind feels refreshed from unwanted preoccupations

As he was drying his body, he could feel his thigh drumming with soft pain and leaving a comfortable stinging on his skin and mind, something that he appreciated greatly. Not bothering on finding new clothes, he just put on the ones he was wearing earlier and got out of the bathroom. Of course, Dick was diligently waiting for him on the bed, playing with Alfred the cat on his lap. Tim sat besides him on the bed, still drying his hair with a towel, rubbing on his scalp to give himself another thing to do rather than engage a conversation with his brother.

A large calloused hand patted him firmly on the shoulder in a sweet gesture.

_Nauseating. Don’t let him touch you when everything he wants is just making sure you’re still alive._

“You’re still pale as a ghost even though you’re fresh out of the shower.”

_He caught on it, he caught on it, he caught on it.._

“Told you that you should have been more mindful of your body’s needs, you’re trembling Timmy.”

Thank god Dick is an idiot.

“You know me, it’s hard to stay still even though I’m told to.” Tim happily went on with Dick, eager to make him think of something else than he could have possibly done to himself in the shower.

“Your heart didn’t do anything funny, right? You have to told us if it does.”

“No, it was okay.”

Tim grabbed the water bottle on the tray of food Dick brought to him earlier and took several long gulps. He could feel Dick’s gaze on him, persistently, and that meant he wanted to talk: a.k.a, talking about Tim’s feelings. The funniest of all.

“It’s not fair,” the eldest finally said.

“What is not fair?” Tim could feel the headache coming.

“You, suffering all the time. I genuinely thought that you were going to be alright after all this mess with Bruce, but then you had to suffer more, it’s just… so unfair. You’re the most deserving of us all, you shouldn’t be subjected to that,” he said defeated, his chin resting on his folded hands.

_Well, I can’t do much about it, can I? At this point, I’m just cursed_. “At this point, I’m just used to being thrashed around by life. I’m done complaining about it, I just make do with it. It’s easier this way.” _Nothing is easy now_.

Dick looked at his little brother in disbelief, but not completely surprised. He was so used to bad things happening constantly in his life that he stopped hoping anything good could happen to him. That fact alone was enough to make Dick want to rip out his heart out if his chest. That is the worst way to let himself spiralling into despair, and Dick had to do something about it. Make the kid look forward to something, anything but cases and vigilanting because he needed the freaking rest.

“Don’t give up on life, Tim. It’s only by living that you will find something worthwhile. You got us back and we’re not going anywhere this time, I swear. You can tell us everything that goes through your mind, you don’t have to keep pushing everything at the back of your head.”

Too bad it’s too late for that in Tim’s head. He should have given him those words when Bruce was assumed dead, when he needed them the most, not pushing him away and thinking that Tim was crazy, almost trying to put him in Arkham because he couldn’t put his shit together at the time… Tim’s anger was trying to wriggle free but at this point, Tim wasn’t even trying to hide his feelings, he had poured a concrete slab over them. Plus, being angry at Dick wouldn’t solve anything anymore, he had to convince him he was alright, showing signs of progress to let him, and the others, drop their guard enough so he could escape. That was the only thing on his mind. After everything that happened, he wasn’t seeking to reconcile with the family, he just wanted…

**_OUT_**.

It was like the word had echoed suddenly in his head, very loudly. As much as Tim acknowledged the voice in his head without protesting, he couldn’t control it and he could feel it creeping in his brain, giving him stabbing pains from time to time. But it was the only way to keep moving forward without being harassed by own emotions. And the way it helps him be numb whenever he wants is something he longed for very long.

“Tim? You’re still there? Does your head hurt?” Dick was gently holding him by the shoulders, trying to get a good look at his face to see if he was in any pain.

_No, I’m okay_.

“No, I’m okay.”

_Good_.

“Maybe I should try to rest a bit, the shower made me dizzy.” _Good, rest well so you can gather your strength when the time will come._

“Okay baby bird, rest well. And don’t forget, you can always talk about what’s in your mind, even though you think it’s stupid, okay?” Dick tucked him into his bed, still looking him all over for any sign of pain or unease.

“Thanks Dick.”

The only thing Tim wanted was to cut the conversation. A year ago, he would have basked in the attention his big brother was giving him but right now, it just gave him the creeps and added more fuel to his distraught emotions. Dick is literally just treating him like some other traumatized victim, walking on egg shells around him and giving him the cliché reassuring words. He heard them so much, even came up with a few of them, knowing what it felt like to feel like shit almost all the time, that they did not work on him anymore.

He brought the blanket higher to cover his face and he felt Dick fussing over him to see if he was perfectly tucked in. For the sake of it, Tim send him a little smile over his blanket to try and reassure him so he could BACK. THE. HELL. OFF.

Dick sent him back the smile, but his eyes showed that they weren’t fully convinced.

After closing the door as quietly as he could, Dick let himself slide along the wall, out in the corridor. How could he have failed him that much? Being a blind, sorry excuse for a brother for not noticing in how much pain his little brother was in. Even if he isn’t the type of person to talk about what he truly and fully feels, he would at least give them hints or tiny bits of information on how he feels, or even show through actions that he still wanted to act as a part of this family, by simply helping on a case or spending time with his brothers. Especially, when he was greatly injured, he would crave this kind of attention and couldn’t stand to be left alone, turning into the cutest cuddle lover.

Yet, this Tim right here… wasn’t showing any type of normal reaction and he looked empty as hell. He was just being here, nothing more. Merely existing. Was he really good with being in the manor, surrounded by the people who abandon him? But they had no choice, they couldn’t leave him alone with what he had suffered. The problem is that would he let them help him or keep on refusing to let them in?

………………………………………………………..

_Everything was white. He was in a big, empty white space with absolutely nothing around. Nothing had shape, nothing had smell, he could just see white everywhere. His body was as heavy as lead and he could just drag himself on the ground to see if there was anything else he could discover that would give him hints about this strange place. He felt cold inside. He felt alone. He didn’t want to be alone, he wanted to be in the warmth of the others, he wanted someone to stroke his hair and whisper sweet nothings into his ears, telling him that everything is going to be okay. As he dragged himself on the white ground, he could hear faint sounds coming forward and the more he advanced, the more he could hear distinct voices. His family. The voices of his beloved, dysfunctional family were waiting for him. He tried to reach them, raised a hand in the air in the hopes of touching them, when he felt a sudden wave of dizziness heat up his body. He soon realized that he couldn’t move anymore, and he started panicking when he felt something wriggle beneath him. Dread filling up his stomach, he looked down at the level of his waist to see that a strange white figure was pulling him to make him stay on the ground, slowly moving backwards, far away from his family. He tried to wriggle free from the creature’s grasp, its long, thin arms were only getting stronger around his waist, digging its bony fingers into his hips. When Tim felt something soft brushing at his back – he only realized now that he was bare chest – he recognized the touch as being hair. He looked more closely at the creature’s face and realized with horror that it was himself. A white, empty, dull version of himself that wouldn’t let him go back to see his family._

_“Do you really think they care? They abandon you more than once, you know.”_

_The arms began to stretch up, snaking around Tim’s entire body, providing him with no room to move. Instead of the sweet nothings, he got a snake-like voice hissing into his ears how his family failed him in every way possible even though he served them with all his might. _

_“You’re willing to go back to them when they treated you like this? Like a disposable vigilante? They broke you Timmy, it’s over, if you go back to them, they’ll just hurt what’s left of your pieces.”_

_Even though he wanted so desperately to go to them, he knew it was right. What’s the point?_

_“Let yourself go, Timmy. Don’t make yourself hurt anymore. You don’t have to keep on being the one who does everything and gets nothing in return. You don’t have the strength anyway, so spare yourself the pain, okay?”_

_The creature creeped up behind him even more, pressing itself on Tim’s back to murmur directly into his ears. The figure was no longer white. It was green and purple with a sickening crimson red grin._

_“I’ll take care of you from now on, all right?”_

Tim woke up with a start, frantically looking at his room for any trace of something suspicious, his heart going miles away, his breath erratic. Nothing. It was just a nightmare. One that had felt so vivid, but still a nightmare. His throat was feeling scratchy and he realized he might have screamed himself hoarse in his dream, which he indeed did since his door flew open and a very concerned Bruce stood there, doing the exact same thing, scanning for any sort of threat. Then, his eyes focused on Tim who was still struggling to catch his breath, his arms solidly locked around him. Bruce immediately feared for his heart and rushed to his side, a hand firmly against his back to pull him closer to him and the other on his chest, measuring his heartbeat, which was way too fast for his liking. The boy was extremely pale, which seemed to become a habit these days, his arms and hands were icy, and the way he tried to protect himself so desperately by clinging to his frame showed that he had quite the terrifying nightmare.

“It’s okay Tim, you’re safe. There is nothing to be afraid of, I’m here now, I’ll never let anything happen to you. Control your breathing slowly. That’s it.”

Following Bruce’s breathing routine, Tim could see it. It was too late. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see this creature, this corrupted version of himself, telling him to get away from him, from all them, as fast as he could. But for now, he could only be lost in own mind, the sound of his heart deafening in his ears and all he could do was to reach for the closest source of heat, which was Bruce’s chest. Strong arms were wrapped gently around him as a response and the strokes on his back could have almost lulled him back to sleep, if White Tim wasn’t waving at him from a corner of the room, with a bloody grin. That made Tim stifle a gasp and scoot a little closer to Bruce for security. That caused Bruce to look more attentively at his son’s face; his eyes were glossy but strangely focused at the same time, and they were staring at a corner of the room. Having an idea, Bruce decided to break the silence:

“Tim, is there something bothering you in the room?”

“No, it’s fine,” came the reflexive answer, but his eyes were still fixated on the corner of the room.

“What does it look like?” Bruce asked like Tim had told him what was actually in the room.

“It’s white and scary and bloody. It won’t stop smiling,” the boy deadpanned.

That sent a shiver down Bruce’s spine. The description, as simple as it was and could be mistaken for any scary creature haunting a child’s dreams, was too similar to the Joker.

“What does it do?”

“Nothing much, he’s just looking at me. Creepily though.” Tim rubbed his eyes, blinked a few times and let out a sigh. “It’s okay, it’s not there anymore.”

He felt safe enough to stop digging his nails into Bruce’s arms for security and detached himself carefully from his father. Realizing he was sweaty from his nightmare, he began to fan himself absent-mindedly with his shirt while still gently collecting his breath.

“Does this happen to you frequently?” Bruce asked, with a hand still on his son’s shoulder.

“It’s not that vivid usually, doesn’t follow me outside the dream,” he said, ruffling a bit his hair, which was matted on his forehead. “It didn’t stay for long though, I think it’s okay.”

“I think that having hallucinations is far from okay, Tim.”

“I can’t really do anything against it, can I?” he said a bit harshly.

“You did as much psychological studies as I did, even more, and you perfectly know that talking about your traumas and experience and accept them is the best way to recovery. I know that I’m not one to talk, but even if you won’t talk to us, we could always take an appointment wi…”

“And you know perfectly, just as I do, that normal therapy will do nothing for vigilantes like us. It runs too deep. Anyway, the issue doesn’t lie here, it’s… the place.”

“You mean the manor?”

“Yeah, I… there is just too many bad memories here. I’m no longer comfortable.”

He could have guessed it by himself but hearing it from his son’s mouth was more hurtful than he thought. His own son wasn’t feeling at ease in his own home, under the same roof as his family, as his brothers.

“Do you think that spending more time here will help you gain back some comfort?” he could feel the hope in his own voice, as well the powerlessness, which he wasn’t used to.

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t think the nightmares will stay for long, I didn’t have those in a long time. I just know that staying put isn’t going to do me any good though,” Tim gave a knowing look to Bruce.

“If you’re talking about going back to the field now, you know it’s impossible. You’ll just collapse instantly. Let’s wait the end of the week to see what Leslie will say about your condition.”

Tim wasn’t eager to hear what she had to say, and he didn’t plan on staying long enough to know anyway. He had to find a way to get out of the manor, and that would have to be after midnight tonight when they will be on patrol. He stood up, a bit unsteady.

“I’m all sweaty, I’ll go take a shower.”

“Tim.”

Bruce stood out of the bed and it was obvious that he was restraining himself from reaching out to his son.

“I understand that things changed a lot while I was ‘dead’, and that you had to cope on your own, but please, don’t shut us out. We might not have been the most supportive family, but we won’t let you deal with this on your own anymore. Give us a chance, please.”

The only thing Tim knew he needed the most was to stop hoping for the impossible. He would rather cut all the ties he has with this family than to go through the same ordeal again.

_Typical Bruce, he’s always so late to notice. You won’t listen to him, right?_

“It’s okay Bruce. It’s not like I’ll go anywhere soon. Just give me some time to be alone, okay?” The perfect answer. Not distant, but not close at the same time.

_Clever boy_.

“…right. Call if you need anything. I’ll be there.”

And with very reluctant steps, Bruce sees himself out of the room, and Tim goes into the bathroom.

As he closed the door, Bruce rested a hand on it, feeling like there was an invisible wall of unknown origin that was keeping him away from his son. He is not too distant or hostile, nor too falsely friendly. He is in that grey area that makes Bruce extremely uncomfortable because he didn’t know how to react, how to handle things or how to help, which was making him feel powerless. Something that he didn’t like to be.

Before he could sigh away his frustration, he felt a small hand tugging on the fabric of his turtleneck and was surprised to find Damian was here as well. He must have heard Tim’s scream as well.

“Father, how is he?”

“He screamed because of a bad dream. I calmed him down and he is off to take a shower now.”

“That does not answer my question,” he huffed while crossing his arms.

Bruce allowed himself to draw that sigh and ruffled Damian’s hair.

“As good as he can be right now. I hope that he will turn around and come to us with a bit of alone reflexion. He is smart.”

Damian tightened his arms and frowns harder. Then he turns his back and:

“I will be the one to bring him his medication and meal later in the day. I will be sure to let him have a piece of my mind on his idiotic confinement.”

Bruce managed to smile at that. Even his youngest was willing to do efforts to bring their stray bird back to the nest for good. It comforted him a bit.

“Be gentle, okay?”

………………………………..

Scorching water was reddening his skin and it felt good. If only he could melt away under the hot water, dragged away in the sewers of Gotham and never be heard of again, it would be perfect. He was sitting on the tile floor of the shower stall, focusing on the water flowing on him and rippling on his body rather than focus on his white double, that came back as soon as Bruce stepped outside. He had his head between his crossed arms, his knees brought up to his chest and he was scratching at one of the scars he did to himself on his thigh. It cracked a little and a bit of blood came out.

“_It’s beautiful, right?_”

“….”

As fucked up as it was, Tim wanted to answer to this hallucination. To this ghost. To this relic of the past that he thought he had buried a long time ago. Because who could be best suited to help him sort out the thick gof of problems reigning supreme in his head than himself? A version of himself that knows being a hero brings you only misery and despair, as well as a set of traumas deeply carved in your psyche. Tim cracked an eye open between his arms to steal a glance at it. Its cheeks were steadily bleeding, and he could see it pulling at its cheeks in order for its skin to not heal, to keep the blood flowing on its hollow cheeks.

With no response, the double decided to talk again.

“_You know, I like blood. And I think you like it too. Just not in your body. That’s why you keep letting some hits and blows hit you when you could avoid them, right? Because you like bruises too. The way the purple mingles with the black and blue makes such a colourful palette, don’t you think? The pain feels great too. It’s the only thing that’s remotely capable of taking your mind off your troubles. And I understand you. After all, I’m you. You created me unconsciously to help you deal with your issues, to just help you see them more concretely._”

His voice was very light, almost ethereal, it was reverberating in Tim’s head but not in a displeasing way. It was bringing him comfort. He made the effort to make proper eye contact with it. It was friendlier than in his nightmare and was actually wearing clothes. Green and purple ones. With green hair, pasty white skin and a wide bloody grin.

“_You look truly exhausted. Staying here isn’t doing you any good, I can see it. Come on, you’re in the shower, it’s the perfect occasion to use that batarang of yours to grant you some much needed relief._”

Oh, yeah, he was right on that point. He couldn’t risk self-harming in the room in case somebody caught him so he could only do it in the shower. He stepped out of the stall, dripping wet and hair sticking on his forehead and neck, and went fetching his trusty batarang in its hiding place. Tim looked at it for a moment, wondering on the fact that those things were created in order to serve and protect and that he was using them to intentionally harm now. He chuckled a bit at this thought. How ironic.

“_What is it, Timmy? Are you hesitating?_”

He had never hesitated on self-harming when he had felt the need to, because it was something that he had control over, he wasn’t suicidal at the time, he had just wanted relief. His double was behind him now, glued to him on his back, embracing his naked body with its two own bony arms, snaking an arm around his waist and another to delicately grab his lower face, spreading its fingers on his chin and neck.

“_It’s okay, Timmy._” The double was oddly trying to reassure him, to normalize this situation. “_It’s completely normal to feel this way, to want to hurt yourself, to want to see yourself bleed. You’re utterly broken after all; you’re just trying to mend the pieces in your own way._” The double was coaxing him into using the batarang, brushing its fingers against Tim’s throat, and the broken Robin find it strangely reassuring, as he was almost considering this voice as an ally. He could actually feel the fingers on his face, and he was unconsciously soaking into the contact, anything that could reassure him.

“That’s right. It’s not my fault. I did my best.”

Tim dragged the end of the batarang on his fingertips first, enjoying the piercing sensation. He then hopped back in the stall and started scarring his upper arms, ever so slowly, feeling the skin pulling apart.

“You’ll be so sorry when I’ll be gone. Nobody to do the dirty work, all the prep work before a difficult case. Nobody to blame either for everything that went wrong. Why did I even include myself in this disaster of a family? Almost killed twice by two of my so-called brothers.” His voice was half-broken, as if he only believed half of the things he had just said.

“_You’re absolutely right. You don’t even belong here in the first place._”

Tim continued to rant about everything that pissed him off over the years, but never said anything because somebody had to be strong, had to keep on working without being traumatized. Angry tears were mingling with the water, as well as rivulets of blood from his arms. Breathing was becoming difficult and Tim felt like ants were roaming under his skin. He scratched himself raw to make the feeling disappear, making angry red lines appears on his already abused arms, on his thighs and his neck.

He had to do something.

**RIGHT NOW**.

“I’m not saying there anymore. I’m out of here.” He stumbled out of the stall, hastily drying himself with a big towel, smearing blood all over it in the process. Panting like he was going to have a second heart attack and tottering like he was drunk, Tim harshly rubbed at his face to block the tears from coming but they kept coming anyway.

Tim’s white double just watched him with a content expression on his face, relishing on Tim’s despair, confusion, anger and rage. Having made his mind and steeling his heart, Tim comes out of the bathroom and dresses in black. His important stuff had always been in his messenger bag he had with him when he got to the manor with Dick the other night. He quickly searched it to identify which one of the keys he had was the key to his closest safehouse. After identifying it, he pocketed it, took his bag and exited the room as quietly as his Robin training allowed him. Nobody was in sight. It was 5:12 PM, a time of day where Bruce would be at his office, Dick and Damian in the theatre room and Alfred tending to the manor. Alfred would be the trickiest one to avoid because you never know where he could pop out from, quieter than a cat, ex-spy courtesy.

As he made his way to the Bat cave, he could feel his neck crawling as well, the feeling resurging. This whole house is an itch. A cursed itch Tim placed on himself. What normal kid – with no superpower whatsoever – in their right mind would want to get involved in alien-dealing cases? A small, frenzied laugh bubbled out of his lungs, as he scratched again and again, until it was raw and bleeding.

“Poor, old Timmy wanted to feel love so he decided to dive into this crazy life. Wanted to be helpful and validated, blah blah blah…”

He arrived in front of the grandfather clock without any trouble and descended into the cave. Cold, damp and unfriendly cave. As he went down, he realized he didn’t bandage his upper arms and the blood was still flowing a little, sticking to his clothes. Nobody in the cave and his bike was still here. Almost too easy, huh?

“I should have gotten the hell out of here sooner then…”

His double was running all over the batcave, laughing hard at the T-rex statue, which earned another deranged laugh from Tim. White Tim showed him the batmobile, especially the tires, which earned him a thumbs up from the real Tim. After equipping himself with more batarangs, the former Robin used one to ruin the four tires of the batmobile, and he sure well knows that those take time to replace because of their weight and the complex gears they have to be set up with.

As he got to his bike, he couldn’t help himself and let out another laugh, tugging at his hair. It’s like he could feel himself splitting; the mad, angry Tim that wanted vengeance upon everything and everyone in this stupid manor… no, upon the whole vigilante world, and the broken and traumatized Timmy, who was losing his sanity, undoing all the work he did on himself after the Joker Junior incident. Still laughing, he was crying, grabbing at his hair and hunching over his bike.

“_What’s wrong? Let’s get out of here! It’s okay, Timmy, you’ll be better outside. You just need to leave this cursed place and you’ll feel better._” His double was pointing at his helmet.

“Yeah, you’re right. I… I just need… Yeah, you’re right.”

He put on his helmet with trembling hands, and adrenaline began to course through his veins when he started on the engine. That’s it. As soon as the entry to the Batcave will open, they will know it’s him. Sorry for them, but Tim had already planned for his escape and beyond. If he managed to get out, they will _never_ find him.

“TIM! What in the world do you think you’re doing?!”

Oh motherfuck…

Tim turned an annoyed and tired look to his adopted father rushing down the stairs to him. He let out a huge sigh and answered, letting himself be as angry and as hurtful as he wanted to be earlier.

“What does it look like I’m doing, _Dad_?! Getting the fuck out of this prison of course!”

The very harsh tone made Bruce stop in his tracks and inspect his son more carefully. He seemed distraught, jumpy and extremely angry. Even though he was wearing black, Bruce could clearly see some darker spots on his upper arms, like they had been soaked with something. Definitely blood. Bruce put out his hands forward, adopting the typical posture of the vigilante trying to convince someone traumatized to not do what they’re about to do.

“You know what? I’m actually quite disappointed that you didn’t realized I was faking. That I couldn’t bear to stay another second here. That I was just so broken nothing you could do would ever work again. I’m too smart for my own good, I perfectly know that there is nothing to help me! So I’m leaving. I can’t bear this hollow affection born out of an outdated sense of duty anymore. Oh, by the way I busted the Batmobile’s tires, I have to give myself a head start.”

Bruce gave a side look to his car to see that, indeed, all four tires had been pierced. Yet, that wasn’t important right now, what was important was to figure something out, literally anything, to prevent his son from leaving. He thought he had calmed him enough. He knew that he was mentally suffering, that he kept a lot of things from him and from the family, but to think that he was nervously breaking down to this extent was beyond his expectations. Bruce mentally slapped himself for a second: of course, Tim’s goal was to leave, it’s the first damn thing he tried to do and triggered his heart attack. Oh God, his heart…

“Tim, you’re about to do a big mistake. I know you’re aware that you’re not thinking straight. Just settle down for a few seconds, okay son? Let me go to you.”

“Don’t you dare move! Stay right where you are!”

Tim was crying a waterfall while smiling all the way. It was like yesterday’s breakdown but worse. A part of Tim is expressing his grief, his anger and another part just wants to ask for help, to say what he truly feels. That’s why he is crying. His heart is crying, his mind is trying to repress it all, normalize the situation, and something else, something wicked, corrupted, toxic was making him talk. Making him believe he just needed to be alone to start feeling better, which is absolutely wrong. If Tim manages to get away from the manor, away from them, even in the state he is in, there is very little chance that they will find him fast or find him period.

“You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. And you know whose fault is it? This place. This empty, dreaded place. All I wanted was to escape my loveless life, to find people who I could truly help and be a genuine part of their lives. And all I did, like the naïve boy I was, was to transfer myself from one empty place to another. I was just a band-aid. A replacement so to speak.”

“You’re the only one to think of yourself that way, son. You are a member of this family…”

“You know what? Keep the flimsy reasons for when you find me, which I don’t think you will.”

Tim made his Redbird roar and he could see in Bruce’s eyes that he had lost, that he couldn’t cover the distance between them before Tim started driving. The man straightened himself.

“Just remember that, Tim. I will find you and I will bring you back home.”

“Try and catch me then,_ Batsy_.”

With a final deranged laugh chocked by a sob, Tim was out of the cave, making Bruce’s heart sink dramatically at his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He is slowly reverting back to his old Joker Junior state. Let's pray he will be fine.  
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, it took me some time to write it :)


End file.
